


go among mad people

by melimarron



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Crossover, F/M, Fusion, Gen, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Psychological Horror, Unreliable Narrator, again..., its the hunger games - Freeform, it’s the hunger games what did you expect, kinda nervous about this one tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melimarron/pseuds/melimarron
Summary: In the country of Panem, Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase, and Grover Underwood are Reaped for the annual Hunger Games. And at first, it’s impossible to trust anyone, especially for a potential Career, a genius, and a nervous nature lover.But it’s only so long before they team up to take down the evil behind the Games.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Grover Underwood, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. 
> 
> (“But I don't want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.  
> “Oh, you can't help that,” said the Cat: “we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.”)

Annabeth Chase trained for the Hunger Games as often as she could, despite living in District Eleven. If she was picked, she wasn’t going to be caught flat-footed, like dozens of tributes from all over Panem had been. No, if Annabeth Chase was chosen for the Hunger Games, she had plans to  _ win _ it.

She’d been using a dagger as a weapon since she was seven, and as a citizen of District Eleven, she’d been well-trained in plants, particularly poisons. She could use a sword, albeit not as well as she could use her knife, and was so-so when it came to shooting arrows. She was fast and strong, which was more than any previous tribute could say.

Which wasn’t to say that she  _ wanted _ to be picked. If her life were perfect, then she would never be picked for the Games, and neither would any of her friends or family. But there weren’t many people under eighteen in District Eleven, so it was best to be prepared for the worst, and Annabeth made it a point to be prepared for everything.

Still, when the announcer stepped up to the microphone, and gave the little spiel about the first Hunger Games and the Capitol and the districts, and trilled out, as usual, “Ladies first!”, Annabeth was expecting her to say the name of a girl Annabeth barely knew, an eighteen year old or a twelve year old, someone she didn’t have to interact with daily. Someone she didn’t have to adjust to being gone.

Instead, in that vapid little voice, the announcer said, “Annabeth Chase!”

Annabeth blinked. A cold feeling washed over her.  _ That’s me. _ People started turning to look for her, relief causing them to relax, to breathe more easily. They were guaranteed a Hunger-Games-free death for the next year.

She stepped forwards, moving on autopilot more than anything. She wasn’t sure what her face looked like. Hopefully not scared. Gods, hopefully not scared.

_ I’ve trained for this. I’ve trained for this. I’ve trained for this. _

Her eyes flickered over the crowd. She could see the relief in the other girls’ faces even as they started to avoid her gaze, like they thought she’d go die faster if they didn’t watch her walk up to the stage.

Before she knew it, she was at the foot of the stage and her feet were starting to carry her up. Her mind was blank as she stood next to the announcer and stared out at the sea of faces in front of her.

_ I’ve trained for this. I’ve trained for this. I’ve trained for this. _ She tried not to fiddle with her necklace- 

“And now for the gentlemen-”

_ I’ve trained for this I’ve trained for this I’ve trained for this- _

“Grover Underwood!”

Annabeth’s thoughts came to a screeching halt as Grover’s head of curly hair suddenly became more visible in the crowd as people started to shuffle around to look for him, as they had looked for her earlier. He was stock still, and didn’t even take a step forward until someone gave him a hard shove from behind.  _ Then _ he moved, tripping over his own feet as he made his way to the stage.

_ Grover Underwood. _ Of course. It wasn’t enough that she had to fight to the death against someone she knew. It  _ had _ to be one of the people she hung out with- the person she’d known since she’d run away from District Three when she was seven. One of her best friends.

She wished the announcer had pulled out literally any other name. Leo Valdez. Will Solace. Hell, even Ethan Nakamura would’ve been better, and the guy had engineered nineteen and a half “accidents” to land people in the hospital before.

She shook Grover’s hand numbly, seeing the same unease she felt in his eyes.

If nothing else, this would be a Hunger Games to remember.

* * *

It was Reaping Day, and Percy Jackson was running late.

_ Oh gods oh gods oh gods- _

If he hadn’t stayed up so late last night trying to comfort a worried Tyson and a hysterical Estelle- if he hadn’t tossed and turned even after he went to bed- if he hadn’t burned the coffee and had to make a new pot-

Well, that didn’t matter now, because it was Reaping Day and  _ he was late. _

What was the punishment for that, anyway? He didn’t know, but figured it was somewhere along the lines of  _ immediate admittance to the Hunger Games. _

Oh, he was so dead. Hopefully not literally.

His feet hit the pavement in time with the crash of the ocean waves. Tyson had gone early, but Percy had stayed behind to make sure Estelle was okay before heading out himself. He knew, logically, that Paul was perfectly capable of watching his own daughter while he, Tyson, and Mom were watching the tributes get picked, but he couldn’t help himself, especially after the Gabe Ugliano fiasco.

Still, if he could go back in time, he would definitely, absolutely, leave as early as possible, because then he wouldn’t be here. Running late to the _ freaking Reaping. _

He got to the Reaping platform with moments to spare, just in time for them to draw blood and take fingerprints for their sadistic attendance form. The historical video that was always played before the Games was already going full-blast, the national anthem of Panem bellowing in his ears.

Now, on to the more important part: finding his brother.

Where was Tyson? Percy had never been so glad for the noise of the video. It was boring, repetitive, and overall stupid, but it was also a nice excuse for the announcer to not look at the crowd and spot Percy pushing his way through the crowd, hissing Tyson’s name.

“Tyson?” he whisper-shouted. “Hey, have you seen-”

“- _ Our great nation of Panem- _ ”

“Tyson?” How did Tyson get lost in the crowd? He was one of the tallest, brawniest kids in the district, despite being a full year younger than Percy.

“ _ -Rebellion quickly stopped- _ ”

There he was. Tyson looked sick, but was giving the video his full attention. Percy shoved his way closer until he was next to his brother, who was still totally immersed in the video

“Hey, man,” Percy muttered, softly enough that he wouldn’t interrupt the stupid video.

“Percy!” Tyson said. Nerves coated his voice. “What happened?”

“ _ -Tradition, and- _ ”

“Just running late. Where’s-”

The music swelled, pounding in Percy’s ears again, and abruptly, everything was silent.

“Let’s start with the girls,” the announcer said. Percy noticed that they were smiling, a great big fat smile, apparently totally unaware that literally nobody was smiling back. Was the announcer  _ high _ or just so totally desensitized to the Games that dead kids just didn’t make an impact anymore? How could anyone be  _ smiling? _

Tyson shifted nervously next to Percy. “I’m gonna be sick,” he said.

“Calm down, man, we’ve still got a minute before the boys-”

“Nancy Bobofit!” the announcer called.

Great. He was going to have to watch a classmate die. A terrible classmate, sure- Nancy Bobofit was one of the most bloodthirsty girls Percy knew- but still a classmate.

“Now for the boys!” The announcer said, dipping a hand into the giant fishbowl full of names. Percy had a few names in there, but there were dozens of other boys in the district who had far more names than he did. The odds were, for once, in his favor.

And then the announcer, that stupid,  _ stupid _ announcer, opened his mouth.

“Percy Jackson!” the announcer burbled, smiling aimlessly.

Percy stopped breathing.  _ Ohhh, no. _

Next to him, Tyson was frozen stiff. Slowly, people turned to stare at Percy with that dead-eyed stare that was so commonplace on Reaping Day.

Percy turned to Tyson. “I got this,” he said, and smiled at him. “You’ll see. I got this.”

Percy walked up to the stage with a cold feeling in his stomach. The fear- the feeling of walking towards his own death- was something he’d had nightmares about dozens of times over, ever since he was a kid and watched the announcer shove a hand into the fishbowl of names, praying to all the gods he could think of that his name wouldn’t be the one pulled out.

There was polite, disinterested applause from the crowd as he shook Nancy’s hand and tried not to think too hard about what would happen next.

_ I got this _ , he told himself.  _ I’ll win this. _


	2. Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annabeth arrives at the Capitol and speaks with a fellow tribute, while Percy meets his stylist and sees a familiar face.

In what felt like no time at all, Annabeth was on the train to make the journey to the Capitol. She and Grover met their mentor, a tall, imposing woman named Athena, who insisted that they watch the recording of the Reaping, so that if nothing else, they would have an idea of who it was they would be fighting.

They entered the actual Capitol to applause from people with bizarrely painted faces and hair so teased up that they looked like horrifying Dr. Seuss creatures come to life.

They got off the train and were immediately shepherded away by gangs of stylists, and that was when the afternoon got even worse than it already had been.

The stylists seemed to have no sense of personal space, boundaries, or privacy- which Annabeth supposed made sense, considering she was essentially nothing more than a sacrificial lamb. Even the winners of the Games never got much privacy.

That didn’t mean she didn’t resent every aspect of it.

At one point, the head stylist- Annabeth couldn’t be bothered to remember her name- got in close to Annabeth’s face, brown eyes critical of every aspect. “Oh, you have beautiful eyes, dear. Much better than last year’s. You’ll look quite fierce.”

“Thank you?”

“CC, what do you think about this?” Another stylist came up to them, holding a bolt of white cloth. “For the dress?”

“Yes, yes, that looks wonderful,” the head stylist, CC, said. “Make sure to refit the laurels for Eleven’s male tribute, too.”

“Got it, ma’am.” The stylist rushed off.

Hours passed. Annabeth stood there, trying to be as still as possible. The stylists interacted with her in the same way one would interact with a mannequin, barely speaking to her, unless it was to tell her to lift her chin or turn to the side. They caked makeup on her face, scrutinized it, then washed it all off. They didn’t seem to have any sense of urgency at all. Annabeth was convinced that, if not for the Capitol’s obsession with the Games and everything to do with them, the stylists would keep her forever.

Finally, after dressing her in a white dress, setting a laurel wreath on her head, and putting so much makeup on her that Annabeth was certain that she’d have to scrub off a layer of skin to get it all out, they let her go with cheerful waves. CC’s blue eyes were twinking. “Have fun, dear!” she called, beaming.

_Fun. Right._

Annabeth made her way to the chariot area alone, and when she got there, she was dismayed to see that Grover wasn’t there yet. Great- she was alone with people who could and would definitely try to kill her in a matter of days.

Looking around, Annabeth caught sight of another tribute- a tall blond man, definitely on the older side for a tribute. There was a scar on his face, and when he turned, she could have sworn his eyes were gold. It sent a twinge of uneasiness through her.

Apparently, though, he had taken her gaze as an invitation to come over, and walked over with an easy grace that Annabeth had always associated with the Victors on their Victory Tour, sneering down at them while giving speeches about how sorry they were for murdering members of her district.

And then he was right in front of her. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Luke Castellan. District One.”

He held out his hand. Annabeth didn’t take it. “I know. I saw you getting Reaped. I’m Annabeth Chase, District Eleven.”

He grinned. Now that he was closer, she could see his eyes were blue, not gold. “I know, I saw you getting Reaped. And, between you and me- you totally have a better chance of winning than that Underground guy.”

“Underwood,” Annabeth corrected.

“Right, my bad.” Luke’s smile faded. “How are you feeling, Annabeth? Afraid?”

“I’m good,” Annabeth said. “What about you? Scared you’ll die five minutes in? That’d be embarrassing for a Career.”

Luke’s smile reemerged, colder this time. “I’m perfect,” he said. “You’d better watch your back, though.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Annabeth turned away. “We have a show to put on, don’t we?”

She could hear him walking away, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief, walking towards her own chariot, where Grover was waiting.

“Hey,” Grover said. “I hate my stylist.”

Annabeth looked him over. Like her, he was dressed in an Ancient Greece inspired outfit, all in white, with laurels in his hair: the only reference this year’s costumes would make to their district, thankfully. “Why?”

“He said I had a _side character_ kind of personality,” Grover said, climbing into the chariot. “At least he didn’t touch my hair.”

“Lucky,” Annabeth said, following him in. “Mine couldn’t keep her hands off my head.”

Grover started talking, a stream of nervous chatter that Annabeth had gotten used to on the train. She tried to listen, but her eyes kept drifting back to the District One boy, Luke.

Luke glanced over at her and smiled, his blue eyes warm even as they raked over her and Grover, obviously checking for weaknesses.

Annabeth met his gaze. She didn’t even realize her hand had drifted to her hip until it closed over empty air instead of a weapon. Luke wouldn’t be an easy opponent, and he was from District One, to boot. He was practically assured victory.

Well. She was going to show him and his entire stupid district why you never take victory for granted.

* * *

Percy endured what felt like a million completely random indignities before his mentor, Poseidon, let him meet his stylist, and even then, his stylist was a complete grouch who squinted and glared and made vague dolphin-related threats without ever introducing himself.

After another solid thousand hours of poking and prodding him with needles, his stylist handed Percy a length of cloth that looked like it had once been a bed sheet. A very nice, silk bed sheet, but a bed sheet. “Put that on,” he grunted.

Percy did so, awkwardly.

It turned out to be some kind of toga thing. He probably looked like a total idiot, but the stylist nodded approvingly, or at least he nodded in a way that could possibly be seen as approving, if one was extremely generous and very, very good at interpreting facial features. “Hold out your arms.”

Percy held out his arms. “Is Nancy wearing something similar to this?” he asked.

“Yeah, we had to _coordinate_.” His stylist sneered at the word _coordinate_ , like it was the worst thing he could imagine. “One more thing.” He turned around and marched out of the room, leaving Percy to stand in the middle of the room, arms raised. He lowered them as soon as the stylist was out of the room.

The stylist came back into the room and gave Percy a truly magnificent scowl. “Who told you you could put your arms down? Put them back up. Here.”

And the man shoved a trident at him.

Percy stared down at it. “They let us have weapons in public? In the middle of the Capitol?”

“Not usually,” Percy’s stylist said stiffly. He did not elaborate, but gestured impatiently for Percy to take the trident.

Percy grabbed the trident and turned it over in his hands. It felt strangely natural. Maybe there would be a trident in the Cornucopia for him to use.

“Get out there and don’t kill anyone with that until the Games start,” the stylist said, giving Percy a shove.

“Aren’t you going to give me tips?”

“Do I look like a man who gives tips?”

“Well-”

“Go.”

Percy went.

When he got to the area where the chariots were lined up, he went straight for the horses attached to District Four’s chariot, ignoring Nancy completely, who was already in the chariot. She was dressed in a toga, too, and looked just as awkward in it as Percy did. She was clutching a fishing net in her hands like it had personally offended her.

“Hey, there, buddy,” Percy murmured, rubbing the horse’s neck. He’d always liked horses, and they had always liked him. “Hey. Hey. Do you have a name?”

The horse huffed and gave Percy a look that clearly meant _of course I do, idiot._

“Okay, but can I call you Blackjack?”

Blackjack huffed again.

Percy took that as a yes. He smiled. “Hi, Blackjack.”

“Jackson!” Nancy snapped from inside the chariot. “Get in or I’ll run you over.”

Percy couldn’t help rolling his eyes, turning away from Blackjack and climbing into the chariot. He picked up the trident again. “Let’s go.”

They rolled into the bright lights of the stage together, fourth in line. Percy thrust his trident into the air, hoping to make a dangerous first impression. He gritted his teeth and smiled, hoping that the cameras wouldn’t pick up on his glare. Next to him, Nancy was alternating between scowling and staring incredulously at him. He did his best to ignore her, smiling at the crowd.

A tall man waved at him from the mass of people. He was dressed in a janitor’s uniform, with a broom in one hand and a cat in another. Percy’s smile stiffened, and he craned his neck to keep looking at the man. He knew that guy. He was an old friend, wasn’t he? From a long time ago. A good friend. A trusted friend. His name was… It was…

What was that guy’s _name?_

But he blinked, and the tall man vanished. _Stupid ADHD brain._

He tried to refocus. He was in the Hunger Games. He didn’t have time to think about the weird tall man.

His eyes fell on one of his fellow tributes- a girl. She was blonde, with some kind of laurel wreath in her hair. She was looking around, too, probably more subtly than he was. Checking out the competition. Trying to decide who to kill first, who would be a good ally, who would make a dangerous enemy.

Then her eyes met his, and Percy could have sworn that something in the universe _shifted_ at that moment. She looked like a princess, with her hair done nicely by the Capitol stylists, especially with the laurels in her hair and her long, flowing dress.

Meanwhile, _he_ was the dork wearing a repurposed bed sheet and holding a gaudy trident. At least he wasn’t the one stuck with the fishing net, because Clarisse had looked ready to strangle him with it before the Games even started. He didn’t want to know what she would do once she had an actual weapon in her hands.

Realizing he was staring, Percy quickly looked away from the girl with laurels to continue smiling at the crowd. Tyson and Mom and Paul would be seeing this footage. And if things went badly, the videos of these Games would be the only way Estelle would ever really know him. Percy felt a wave of longing, of loss, crash over him. That was an even better reason for him to win. He couldn’t let Estelle only know who he was through heavily edited interviews and videos of him killing or dying.

So he smiled, and he waved, and he hoped to all the gods that he’d survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you with the help of my phone, because the T and E keys on my computer keyboard broke! So it’s kinda a miracle that I finished the chapter in less than a week lol.
> 
> How’d you like the chapter?


	3. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy and Annabeth train for the Hunger Games, but are distracted by unsettling dreams.

Annabeth dreamt.

In the dreams, she was short, small. Grover was there, desperation in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, pulling her along. “Come on, we’re almost there-”

Annabeth remembered this, though the details were fuzzy. She was seven years old. She had left District Three because her father had gotten remarried to a woman who  _ hated _ Annabeth, so she had run away. She’d gotten past the Peacekeepers  _ somehow _ \- Annabeth suspected it was because she was a little girl, and therefore couldn’t get into much trouble. 

Grover had been the first person to actually find her, and he’d dragged her to District Eleven himself, not willing to let a kid his own age die trying to get as far away from her family as possible.

Why had she run away, though? There were worse things in life than being hated by a stepmother. Had she been in danger?

No. No, that wasn’t quite right.  _ She _ wasn’t in danger.

She knew this was a dream, though, and not a memory, because Grover looked older than he had when he’d found her, maybe eleven or twelve. 

And he was wearing furry pants.

“Come on, Annabeth,” he said. “It’s okay, we’ll be okay, we’re almost there-”

“How much farther?” a new voice panted. Annabeth looked over at the speaker- a girl with spiky black hair, thirteen or fourteen years old. She was carrying a shield, and a spear. As they ran, Annabeth caught a glimpse of the face of the shield, and she had to stifle the urge to scream at the hideous face emblazoned on it. “Grover?”

“It’s not far now!” Grover said.

“We don’t have much time,” the girl said.

“Just  _ run _ ,” yet another voice said, and Annabeth turned to the new speaker. To her surprise, she recognizes him: it’s the District One boy, Luke Castellan, about four years younger and without the scar on his face.

“Keep going,” the girl said, slowing down.

“ _ No- _ ” Luke said, and slowed, too. “We’re not leaving-”

“ _ Go! _ ” the girl said. “I’ll catch up, I promise!”

Luke hesitated, then started running again. Annabeth staggered after him, panting with exhaustion, clutching a knife in her hand. They left the girl behind. Something in Annabeth rebelled against that, but she squashed it down.  _ She’ll catch up. She’ll catch up. _

In the distance, Annabeth can hear something howl.

* * *

Percy dreamt.

He was in a forest of some kind, with yellowing leaves at his feet and bone-dry grass around him. There was a sword in his hand, short and bronze, but it felt comforting to be holding it, like he had been using it for a long time. It was night, and though the moon was just a bare sliver in the sky, he could still see two glowing eyes in front of him. Wolf eyes.

Strangely enough, Percy wasn’t worried about the wolf. It wasn’t going to hurt him. If she did, there was a reason for it. There was a lesson to be learned. Besides, he had the strangest feeling that no matter how hard the wolf tried, there was nothing she could do to hurt him.

He twirled the sword in his hand, eyes kept steadily on the wolf. She would attack at any minute now. He got the feeling that the pack didn’t like him much- his teacher was the only one who ever approached him. The others snarled whenever he got too close. As far as Percy could tell, they just didn’t like the way he smelled.

The wolf lunged at him, and Percy raised his sword to defend himself. 

In the distance, he can hear someone- some _ thing? _ \- laughing.

* * *

In the morning, Annabeth and Grover were led down to the Training Center.

“The other tributes will be watching,” Athena warned them. “I can’t tell you anything about the arena, but traditionally, it’s good to focus on skills you  _ don’t _ have in training, not the ones you  _ do _ , to avoid giving them an edge.”

“Great,” Grover said, with an audible swallow. He’d been jumpy all day, no doubt because of the upcoming Games. “Yep. Yeah. Great.”

When they were set loose, Annabeth and Grover both went to the plant identifying stations. Annabwth was fairly good at it, but Grover barely had to  _ look _ at the plants before he knew exactly what it was, like he was identifying them by smell or something.

There was a mild scuffle between three tributes who must have been Careers. One of them, a sickly looking blond boy from District Eight, was yelling something about how  _ the augries were not positive towards you. District Six _ . Annabeth couldn’t remember his name. It had been an odd one, though. Nonagesmius? Septimus?

A supervisor pulled the sickly blond boy away from the other two. “You’ll get your chance to fight later, Octavian.” Right, his name was Octavian, from District Eight. How had she forgotten that?

Octavian spat on the ground at the other tributes’ feet. “I’ll enjoy watching you die,” he hissed, and stormed out of the Training Center.

That night, Annabeth had another dream.

Instead of running through the forest with Grover and Luke Castellan, she was standing on a dock. The water around her was beautiful- a stunning shade of blue that Annabeth knew for a fact she'd never seen in real life. The sky was bright above her. Annabeth swore she could hear birds singing. 

But most importantly, Octavian was in front of her, dressed in  _ armor _ of all things, with a self-important smirk on his face.

She smiled back at him and took out a knife. Annabeth recognized that knife- it had been in her dream before, with Grover and Luke and the girl with the shield. Keeping eye contact with Octavian, she chucked the knife as far away from herself as possible, reveling in the way his face fell.

The perfectly blue water started to churn around her…

Annabeth woke up.

She went to training the next day, exhausted and hoping that none of the other tributes would capitalize on it to trick her or somehow injure her before the Games even started.

The next night, she had another dream. This time, everything was dark. She couldn’t see or hear anything, but she could feel things- cold bodies slapping against her, questing fingers tugging at her hair, sharp nails scratching her face. She could feel panic crawling up her throat as she screamed, but she couldn’t even hear herself screaming.

After each dream, Annabeth woke up breathing heavily. She was sure that she came down to breakfast looking terrible, but Athena and Grover never said anything- though Athena may have just put it down to nerves, and Grover always looked just as exhausted as Annabeth did.

She couldn’t wait for this to be over.

* * *

“Hey, District Four, Jackson.”

Percy looked away from the knot tying station. Despite his mother’s constant laments that he could tangle up  _ anything _ , from rope to fishing nets, he wasn’t having much luck with the snares. A tall tribute with blond hair and a scar on his face stood there, scowling down at him. “What?”

“Wanna spar?”

Percy glanced down at the rope in his hands that could, very charitably, be called a snare. “Fine.” He’d sparred against Tyson before- Paul had taught both of them. This would definitely be more high stakes than a game between brothers, but maybe  _ those _ games would pay off in  _ this _ game.

He stood and walked across the room to grab a sword. None of them fit well. They all felt strange in his hands, like there was something inherently wrong with them. It was more than just the balance of the swords. It unsettled him.

Whatever. It was probably better to have as many skills as possible, and Percy’s knot tying skills had something to be desired. He turned to face the other tribute. “Who’re you?”

The other tribute gave him an odd look, but answered anyway. “Luke Castellan. District One.” He fell into a stance. Percy mirrored him. “All right. Let’s go.”

They started to fight, but, just like when he’d gone to pick out a sword, Percy felt like there was something wrong. His strikes were too slow, or maybe Luke’s were too fast. He would slash with his sword, but would find the sword too short or that his feet were in the wrong place. He felt awkward and clumsy, especially compared to Luke, who was practically superhumanly elegant. Figures- the guy must have been learning how to use a sword since he was a kid.

He caught a glimpse of Luke’s face. He looked upset. Almost anguished. Like there was something more to the spar than just testing out an opponent’s skills.

Before he could try to analyze  _ that _ , Percy was on the ground, gasping for air. The tip of Luke’s sword rested at his throat. In the harsh light of the Training Center, it almost looked bronze.

“Not bad, Jackson,” Luke said, reaching out to help him up. He was smiling, a chilly glint in his eyes. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Once Percy was standing, Luke gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked away.

Percy watched him go. There had been something about that fight- Luke was too angry, too fast. Something about that fight was  _ personal _ for him.

Nancy sidled up to whisper in Percy’s ear. “Didn’t know you were good enough with a sword that a  _ Career _ would fight you.” Percy could smell her ungodly combination of ketchup and peanut butter on her breath.

“I’m not,” he said back, quietly enough that the other tributes wouldn’t hear him. “I don’t know what that was.”

“Still got your ass beat.”

Percy felt his lips tighten in a line. “I guess,” he said, and stalked away to try his hand at identifying poisonous plants.

That night, he had another dream. This one was more fantastical than the first, with a boat that flew through the skies as easily as a drone. The next night, he had another dream, of swimming around underwater but still able to breathe. After each dream, he would wake up in a cold sweat with a heavy feeling in his gut, and it always took a long time to fall back asleep after them.

After three days of training, there were the private sessions.

“Remember, the Gamemakers are the best way to get sponsors,” Poseidon said. “They don’t want to waste time and money on someone who’s going to die immediately. But getting a high score could put a target on your back.”

“So do your best, but also  _ don’t _ do your best,” Percy said. “You’re super helpful.”

When his name was called, Percy walked into the room. The Gamemakers looked attentive enough. That was good- he’d heard rumors about people getting low scores because the Gamemakers weren’t paying attention during their session. 

He picked up a sword. Like the others, it wasn’t weighted properly, and felt foreign in his hands. He slashed it through the air a few times, experimentally, then walked over to where a bunch of dummies were stashed, looking like they were all constantly on the verge of falling over. He grabbed one and set it in the middle of the room, then went at it.

He felt clumsy, working with an unbalanced sword and against an unmoving opponent, and the feeling of strangeness he’d felt fighting Luke returned. His feet weren’t moving with the same agility he was used to when he would practice with Tyson. He knew, logically, that he’d been practicing for a while- any inexperienced tribute would have trouble getting past him if he had a sword- but being able to beat someone who’d never even picked up a sword was hardly an achievement when beating someone meant killing them.

Despite his clumsiness, he had no difficulties hacking away at the dummy if he imagined the Gamemakers’ faces on it.

When his time was up, Percy let the sword clatter to the ground. He was cordially dismissed by the Gamemakers. He walked out.

Later that night, he found out he’d scored an eight. He went to bed two nights before the Games with a cold feeling in his stomach.

He wasn’t looking forward to sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who gets the Gideon the Ninth reference and/or figures out which parts of this chapter I wrote at midnight!


	4. Interviews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy, Grover, and Annabeth are interviewed by Caesar Flickerman on the night before the Hunger Games will begin.

It was the night before the Hunger Games, and Percy was starting to think the  _ real _ entertainment of the Games was watching the tributes trying to pretend that they were all super excited to go die.

Caesar Flickerman bobbed in front of him, laughing and talking, expertly putting his audience at ease with a voice that sounded like his throat had recently had a tragic run-in with a cheese grater. The interviews hadn’t started yet, Percy’s suit was itchy, and he was about ready to run out to the stage and strangle Flickerman to death. What were they going to do? Kill him?

As always, District One went first, before Percy had a chance to accidentally zone out. The guy he’d fought, Luke, seemed to have completely shaken off the strangeness he’d had a few days prior, and was beaming at the audience as though nothing were wrong.

“So, Luke,” Flickerman said, “back home, is there anyone you think is watching right now? Anyone you want to prove yourself to?”

“Oh, my dad, for sure,” Luke said. “He left my mom and me when I was little, so when I get back home, it’s going to be fun rubbing it in his face. You know? Like, I’ll become a Victor without his help.”

“Your father is Hermes Castellan, winner of the Hunger Games twenty-three years ago, correct?” Flickerman asked.

“That’s right,” Luke said. His smile didn’t waver at all. “So it’ll be an even bigger deal when I win, since I could’ve had so much help, and instead, I’m going to win totally on my own.”

_ Yeah, on your own, if you ignore your Career training, _ Percy thought.

“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to it!” Flickerman said. He let out a raucous laugh that sounded like a pig being brutally murdered. “Luke Castellan of District One, everyone!”

Luke walked away with a glint in his eyes and a sharpness to his smile.

Before he knew it, District Two’s interviews were over and it was Percy’s turn up. The lights shone brightly in his face as he stared out into a sea of Capitol faces. He squinted, and tried to smile. 

He sat in the tributes’ seat next to Flickerman and tried to ignore the man’s voice as they exchanged the pleasantries that every tribute had to endure in their interview.

“So, tell me-” Flickerman leaned forward. Percy hated his voice. “At the Reaping, you were standing next to another boy, tall, strong, looked a lot like you. Who was he?”

“He’s my brother, Tyson. He’s a year younger than me, he’s great. And I have a sister, too,  _ way _ younger than me. She’s named Estelle.”

“Oh, is she eligible for the Reaping?”

“No!” Percy said quickly. “She’s only a baby. She’s a year old.” He searched his mind for something, anything, that would take the topic away from Tyson and Estelle. “Actually, on Reaping Day, I was taking care of her, and I was almost late. Do you know the punishment for being late on Reaping Day? I was afraid I’d, like, be thrown into the arena immediately, you know, like- get all the other tributes to form an alliance to hunt me down, specifically.”

Flickerman laughed his ugly laugh. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be very fun at all! I’m sure you’d last a while, even in that situation. You got an eight, didn’t you, in your interview? Very respectable, one of the higher numbers.”

“Yeah,” Percy said. The highest score this year had been a ten, and the lowest a four, putting Percy solidly in the higher half.

“So, Percy, you’ve talked about your brother, your sister… what do you think your parents think about this?”

“Oh, um, I think my mom would be proud of me for winning the Games, and so would my stepdad. I’m hoping my mom makes cookies if I win. She makes the best cookies.” Percy tried to laugh.

Flickerman looked at him, all traces of cheerfulness gone from his face. “That’s nice, but I was talking about your biological father.”

“I’ve never known him.”

Flickerman leaned closer. Percy almost wished that the man would go back to laughing happily. The serious look on Flickerman’s face was unnerving. It wasn’t right. Caesar Flickerman was supposed to keep things light. He made jokes- bad ones, sure, but  _ jokes _ . He made the Hunger Games look almost palatable. He wasn’t supposed to be  _ serious _ .

In a low, measured voice, Flickerman said, “Are you sure?”

Percy leaned away. “ _ What _ ?”

Just as suddenly as he had become serious, Flickerman’s face split into a grin. He bounced back into his seat, gestured for Percy to stand, and said, “And that’s all the time we have! Percy Jackson of District Four, everyone!”

“Wait-”

“No, no, no, your time’s up! I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully tomorrow, Mr. Jackson!”

Percy allowed himself to be ushered off the stage as Nancy took his place in the tributes’ seat next to Flickerman.

What had  _ that _ been about?

* * *

Annabeth wanted the whole interview thing to be over and done with. She could fight decently, and she was pretty sure she could talk her way out of a lot of things, but on the night before the Hunger Games, all she wanted was to get a good night’s sleep. Not to mention that what she said would be broadcast to the whole country, and she would be in a world of trouble if anyone found out she wasn’t originally from District Eleven.

“Be charming,” Athena had advised her and Grover. They’d both earned decent scores in their interviews with the Gamemakers- Annabeth had shown off a little with a knife and Grover had played some kind of plant guessing game- so now, the only thing they had left to do was to convince the Capitol that they were worthy of gifts in the Games.

Annabeth paid attention to the interviews as much as she was able- this would be her last chance to analyze her opponents. There was a strange glitch in one of the tribute’s interviews- a black haired guy named Percy. One second, Caesar was asking about Percy’s parents, and the next, Percy was looking confused and almost angry as he left the stage.

But there were no more glitches for the next few interviews, and Grover went up to the stage just before she did.

“Grover Underwood,” Flickerman said. “How are you feeling about the Games? How do you think you’ll do?”

“Hopefully I’ll do well,” Grover said, smiling nervously. He coughed a little. “I have a, um, friend, back home, and I’m hoping to get back to her.”

“Oh? What’s her name?”

“Juniper. She's a classmate. She taught me a lot about identifying plants, so that’s my main, um, my main thing. I know what’s safe to eat.”

“Very interesting,” Flickerman said. “You’ll be trying to win the Games for her, then?”

“Yeah! She’s awesome.” Grover’s smile widened. He coughed again. His coughs were starting to sound strange, but Grover had always had a tendency to make strange noises when he was nervous. “Yeah, I guess I’ll try to win for her.”

When it was Annabeth’s turn on the stage, she tried to give short, monosyllabic answers. She smiled, trying to at least pay lip service to Athena’s “be charming” advice, but the less the Capitol knew, the harder it would be for anyone to connect her with the seven year old kid who’d run away from her district ten years prior.

“So,” Flickerman said. He was starting to look desperate to get more than  _ yes _ and  _ no _ out of her. “What do you think your parents think about all this?”

“My dad’s dead,” Annabeth said. A lie, but the Capitol really did  _ not _ need to know she’d lived in District Three for seven years. “I live with a family friend.” Hopefully  _ that _ wouldn’t come back to bite her. She didn’t want Chiron to get in any trouble for housing her.

“I see. What about your mother, then, Annabeth, how do you think she feels about you participating in all this?”

“My mother died when I was a baby,” Annabeth said. This was an easier topic, though not by much. A dead parent wasn’t exactly an identifying factor, not even when it was the truth. “I think she’d be proud, though. She’d want me to outsmart everyone and win.”

Flickerman looked confused for a moment. “Your mother…  _ died? _ ”

“Yes?”

“Impossible _ , _ ” Flickerman said. He said it calmly, like it really was impossible that Annabeth’s mother could be dead.

Annabeth frowned. She gave a little laugh that sounded nothing like her at all. “Do people not die in the Capitol?” She was at least ninety percent sure they did, unless there was some kind of cryogenic body freezing fad going on in the Capitol. She wouldn’t put it past them.

“But your mother isn’t…” Flickerman blinked rapidly a few times, and then he smiled like nothing was wrong. “And that marks the end of our time together!” He gestures for her to stand, smiling broadly. “Annabeth Chase of District Eleven, everyone!”

Annabeth stood to roaring applause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like the chapter? Anyone got any theories for what’s going on with Caesar?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! 
> 
> So, updates will be irregular, but I have outlined EVERYTHING in this fic. I know exactly where it’s going. There is an ending in mind. I have no plans to abandon this fic, so even if it takes a while to update, it will update eventually.
> 
> So: did you like the first chapter?


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